God And My Right
by VelocityGirl1980
Summary: AU based on "The Lion In Winter". Catherine of Aragon dies in 1527, leaving Anne and Henry free to marry. They build a fragile family, but one that could fall apart at the seams at any moment. Please see inside for a full plot summary.
1. Chapter 1

**Full Summary: **Catherine of Aragon is carried off by illness in the winter of 1527, freeing Henry to marry Anne Boleyn with minimal fuss. However, Anne is dogged by rumours that she had the old Queen poisoned; her step-daughter is still estranged from her, believing the rumours to be true. The birth of her three sons should be a comfort to her, especially her eldest and favourite, who is soon betrothed to the daughter of the King of France. But her old woes are compounded as she finds herself in the midst of three powerful boys all vying for position in a fractious Court presided over by an increasingly garrulous and unpredictable King Henry. With the King's favour passing through their sons as easily and mercilessly as it does his Coucillors, Anne finds that she may have to step in and take matters into her own hands to secure the future of beloved eldest son.

**Author's Note:** Heavily inspired by "The Lion In Winter" (about Eleanor of Aquitaine and Henry II) it is just short of a full on cross-over (in that none of TLIW's characters are present in this). You don't have to be familiar with either Eleanor of Aquitaine or the excellent play (which I recommend to the skies) to understand this. As always, the usual disclaimers apply, and I own none of this. Please read and review, thank you.

* * *

**Chapter One: No Goodbyes (Introduction).**

Fireworks exploded over the darkening skies of Greenwich, and the heavily shrouded man stopped in his tracks; turned his face upwards, simultaneously lowering his hood. Rather than being in thrall to the beauty of the cascading gunpowder supernova, however, he cursed heavily in naked disappointment. The King must already know about the child; a messenger must have reached the palace before him. As another distant boom echoed through the city skies, briefly illuminating his dismal surroundings, the man turned back the way he had come. Vivid greens and reds lit up the stables and pigsties and the ramshackle houses that lined this part of London, and gave him cause for pause. If King Henry knew about the child, then would he really be going to all this trouble? Just then, the distant bells of St Paul's joined the clamour of celebrations – a joyful cacophony rather than the monotone tolling of doom.

The messenger reached inside the pocket of his cloak and felt the slim bulk of Queen Anne's letter, her seal attached. For her sake, as well as the baby's, it was best to be absolutely certain that the King had heard all the news about his new Prince. With his heart changed, he turned around again, and set off across the uneven ground towards the Palace of Greenwich, disappearing into the vapour trail of his own breath that clouded in the chilly night air.

* * *

The King had hoped that Queen Anne's confinement in a small, rural, cottage would have helped her carry the child to full term. He had been wrong, but not so wrong as to cause a complete catastrophe. The child had been born, and both he and the Queen lived – the messenger had told him as much. But, as he tried to escape Greenwich undetected, he had been thwarted by Charles Brandon and his own brother in law, George Boleyn. They flanked him, and steered his body towards the Great Hall as he babbled excuses that formed a slipstream of words in his wake.

"There's little point, Your Grace," said Charles as he thrust a goblet of wine into Henry's trembling hands. "The women will have the Queen under lock and key right now."

"They can't deny me; I am the King for God's sake!" he protested in return.

"The Queen must rest," George interjected as they navigated their way through the Hall, all but ignoring the profusion of congratulations that followed them. "If you go there now you may upset her. Women get emotional at these times."

George would know, of course, given that his own wife seemed to be as barren as a brick. But, Henry had to concede, he did have a point about Anne. She needed rest; child birth, he knew, was the limit of any woman's endurance. So, reluctantly, he settled himself at the head table as the musicians began to play again. The conversation, lewd and bawdy, washed over him as he slipped into his own world. He tried to picture the child, imagining who he took after. Did he have Anne's dark hair? Her dark eyes, or her small button of a nose? Would he be as tall as him? Hard to imagine that in a newborn infant. And names? He would discuss the name with Anne-

"Your Grace!"

Henry felt a nudge jolting him to the left as Charles Brandon nudged him firmly.

"Your Grace," the Duke repeated, "there is a messenger here from Anne."

Henry was jerked out of his reverie with a start that knocked his glass over the lip of the table. Cursing as he looked down in time to see the glass explode against the flagstones, he bid his companions a farewell. Through his messenger he would make his escape. Deftly sidestepping the mess he had just made, he made his way back through the Hall.

Outside, he met the cloaked messenger who produced a sealed letter from a pocket hidden in the folds of the rough fabric, and handed it to him with a bow. "From the Queen," he needlessly informed Henry, who could clearly see the falcon seal.

"Thank you," he murmured gruffly as he took the letter over to the nearest torch.

The letter, obviously a dictated one given that Anne had barely given birth, was brief and lacking in endearments. Perhaps, again, because it was dictated rather than written privately by her own hand.

"_Come quick,"_ it pleaded. _"The Prince yet lives, but for how long the Doctors cannot or will not say. Come with all haste, lest you be too late."_

His blood turned to ice in his veins. Could wanton nature be once again playing these cruel tricks on him? First with Catherine – God rest her soul – and now, with Anne too? It seemed to him that nature gave with one hand, and then cruelly reclaimed the same with the other. All his sons dead before they even realised they were born. Henry crumpled the letter as his hand clenched into a fist, and after taking a moment to compose himself, he signalled to the messenger to follow him outside.

He emerges into the beginning of a heavy snowstorm. The freezing air burned his lungs and stung his eyes. Somewhere overhead, fireworks continued to explode across the skies, out towards Greenwich, and the church bells tolled. Celebrations premature, just like everything else.

* * *

But, the following morning, and the Prince lived still. Queen Anne, weary to the bone and aching all over, had ignored even the strongest protestations of her body and sat all night with her son in her arms. She had wrung her own breast dry, dripping the fluid directly into the baby's silently mewling mouth. She had turned it into a paste with honey to give him extra sustenance – but succeeded only in making him gag. All night long, she drip, drip, dripped the milk into him. She paused only to hold up to the fire to keep his blood warm and his heart beating. Is warm blood easier to circulate? She hadn't the faintest idea, but it seemed the right thing to do. Then it was back to the desperate force feeding.

"Eat," she implored him in a voice still hoarse from her earlier pains. "Eat and grow strong, damn you."

The women tried to take him from her, but she sent them running with a flea in their ear. No one would take him from her; not death, and certainly not some commoner wet-nurse dragged from God knows where to do her job for her. Beside, what was it Doctor Butts had told her? To use her time with the Prince to say goodbye. Anne recalled her answer: while there was breath in this scraps lungs, there would be no goodbyes. She had meant it, too.

Finally, as morning fully made its presence felt and revealed a world under several feet of snow, one of her ladies dared to put in an appearance. It was her sister, Mary; no doubt cajoled into this by the others. Expecting another entreaty to relinquish the child's care, she merely nodded to her.

Mary sank into a curtsey – much lower than normal, probably thinking the gesture of humility would soften her stance.

"His Majesty the King has come," Mary said, addressing the floor more than Anne.

She let out a long sigh of relief. "Praise God," she replied, "show him in immediately."

Anne glanced at her reflection in the mirror. The mauve circles under her eyes made her look as if she'd been punched. The white linen coif that her hair had pushed into made her skin look place, and it was already blotchy from tears and lack of sleep. Inside, it felt like war, and she had no idea of how much longer she could out before she either dropped where she stood, or simply died. But, when she heard Henry's familiar step on the flagstones outside, she felt herself revive, as though she sucked the strength from him to restore her own. She turned, still with the Prince clutched in her arms, unaware that a large portion of her left breast was still visible, and saw him standing, framed by the doorway.

For a long moment, they simply looked at each other. This was supposed to be the happiest day of their lives. This child was supposed to be the jewel in their crown – quite literally. He raised a pained smile and crossed the room, gently tugging up her night rail so that her breast was covered.

With a groan, Anne hid her blushes. "I cannot even look decent for you, any more," she said, breaking the silence at last. But the tears were welling in her eyes again.

Henry moved so that he was kneeling in front of her, looking up into her face. "Anne," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "Please rest; you're exhausted. You have done all you can, now."

The women had told him of her all night vigil. She could scratch their eyes out for it. Instead, she merely held out the baby wrapped in his cotton and wool nest. "I've got to make him live," she explained as her face crumpled into an expression of hopelessness. "I have to make him live..." her hollow voice trailed off as Henry took the bundle from her.

Safely tucked away in side was the smallest baby Henry had ever seen. Soft, baby blond hair stuck up in vertical spikes; scrawny red limbs poked their way to freedom through the layers of fabric and dazzling eyes of sapphire blue occasionally appeared as the Prince blinked into this new effusion of light. The thing that disconcerted Henry the most, however, was the silence. The gummy mouth opened and closed, but not a sound escaped him. Could he really be too weak to even make a sound?

When Henry looked back up at Anne, he had tears of grief in his eyes. "Sometimes, you just can't make them live," he explained, as though it were another woman's child. He was distancing himself, Anne could see, as though afraid to let himself love this child only to have it slip into death like his half-brothers before him. "If our love alone was enough to save a child, then there would be no death at all."

In his own way, Henry was trying to console her. But she had to make him see, that it was possible. "I know what he needs, Henry," she explained, snatching the bundle back from his arms as though his negativity were enough to snuff out the boy's delicate flame. "I can make him live."

Henry opened his mouth to say something, but evidently changed his mind. Instead, he got up and took the baby from her again, and laid him back down in his crib by the fire. Instructions were issued to keep the fire stoked at all times, and for the windows to be shuttered again to keep out the draughts. Nor was anyone to enter these chambers unless they had washed themselves first, with proper soap. Henry's hope was as thin as a thread, but like Anne he wouldn't give up without a fight.

Anne watched him from her seat by the cradle until Henry returned to her. He raised her up and embraced her. "Whatever happens," he said, still guarded, "I will be here; I will not leave you to cope alone. But please, for the love of God, get some sleep. You cannot make a child live if you yourself are dead."

Even in her frantic state, Anne could see the sense in his words. As though her brain caught up with the rest of her body, her knees buckled and Henry had to catch her before leading her over to the bed and easing her down between the sheets. She wanted to speak before she lay down, but her feelings were beyond words, now. Henry placed a hand on her shoulder, and gently nudged her down to the mattress, and the last thing she recalled before the sleep consumed her was a whiskery kiss pressed against her forehead.

* * *

When she awoke again, she did not know how much time had passed. It must have been the best part of a day, though. Next to her, on top of the bedsheets, Henry slept on; fully dressed but wearing different clothes to when she had last seen him. In the cradle beside their bed, a mewling baby finally had the strength to cry.

She watched the cradle for a long moment, just listening to the sound of the child inside. Then, slowly, she eased herself out of the bed. He was hungry, he was willingly going to take the milk she offered him, and she was quick to take advantage. As she picked him up, she noticed that his terry towel nappy was soiled, but first he needed his feed. He sucked hungrily, much to her relief. Her breast ached, despite him being so tiny, but she was beyond caring. She just wanted him to feed and feed, to grow stronger with every aching mouthful.

Once he was finished, Anne rang a bell to summon one of her ladies to get the boy's nappy changed. That was one job she gladly delegated, but it still ached in her heart to hand him over to someone else. While he was gone, Anne distracted herself with a book of hours, that she kept at her bedside. She opened up at the relevant page and took up a quill pen from the ink pot in the nearby table and began to write:

"_In the year of our Lord 1528, Henry, Prince of Wales, born on the eighteenth day of February."_

It didn't seem enough. Just one sentence to summarise the most momentous event of her life, beside her coronation. But at least it finally gave the poor mite a name. She looked at the date. It was only just over a year since the old Queen had died of the sweating sickness, and she had still been a lady in waiting. She knew that the King desired her above all women, but she had no idea that he really would go so far as to marry her a month later. This slight on Catherine's memory had caused a scandal – the Court was still in mourning, after all. Everyone knew that Henry was set to have their marriage tried, despite it having been a close guarded secret, but to so openly flout convention was beyond most people's comprehension.

Anne sighed. She could have said no. She could have pointed out that people were whispering that she, herself, had Catherine poisoned to get her out of the way. But the whisperers had gotten the better of her, and she had married the King as much as to spite them for as much as she loved her husband. And she had loved him now for nigh on two years; from the moment she laid eyes upon him when she returned from France. He told her he would tear his Kingdom apart for her for just one moment in her arms – words she dismissed as Courtly banter. But, the trial he was arranging – looking back on that, Anne wondered just how much he meant it.

Anne's reverie was interrupted by Nan Saville returning with the Prince in her arms, smiling brightly as she handed him back to his mother.

"Forgive the lateness, Your Grace," Nan said, "but he needed bathing, too."

Worried, Anne checked to make sure that his little body had been dried off properly, and that his new towelling was not wet. In future, she assured herself, he would be changed first and fed later.

* * *

Over the coming days, the Prince began to develop. Slowly, at first, but soon his ravenous hunger and his mother's attentions had him blossoming into a fully sized, healthy baby that was deemed strong enough to go home to Court. He had been Christened, and his household had been formally established. Now, even the strongest of nay-sayers were admitting that this Prince was for keeps.

The coming of Summer saw the child up on his feet and rapidly turning into a boisterous toddler. With a shock of golden curls, just like his father, and a smile that charmed the statues, he was the apple of his mother's eye. But King Henry – Anne couldn't quite put her finger on it. He would romp and play with the child in ways that Anne had never seen in any other father, then just as quick the defences would be back – like he still expected the child to die at any moment.

Within eighteen months of his birth, he had been joined by a brother: Arthur, Duke of York. Anne chose the name to honour Henry's deceased elder brother. It felt only right given how close she came to losing her eldest boy, now racing towards his second birthday with aplomb. By the time he had hit his fourth birthday, little Harry had been formally recognised as Prince of Wales, gained a bride in the eldest daughter of the King of France, and a second brother to cap it all off.

The third boy, Prince Edward, had a mesmerising effect on King Henry – who seemed to adore this boy more than both Arthur and Harry combined. Maybe he thought himself thrice blessed, but the way Henry showered gift after gift on to the third child seemed incongruous to Anne. Prince Harry would always be special to her. She gave him life twice over, nearly killing herself in the process, and she would gladly do so again. He would always hold a special place in her heart. But other than that, her boys were equal to her; with the eldest just a little more equal than the others.

As soon as she had recovered from Edward's birth, Anne handed him over to his wet nurse, and immediately headed for the Gardens that lay to the back of her chambers. Henry was waiting there for her, like a teenager illicitly meeting his forbidden betrothed, with an armful of red and white roses and a grin on his face. She paused, taking him in, before rushing into his arms. He almost dropped the roses to the floor when lowering them onto a nearby bench while trying to hug Anne at the same time. It was May; Spring time, and the world was coming back to life after a bitter winter.

"All is well now, my love," she whispered in his ear.

He kissed her passionately. "I love you," he replied.

Arm in arm, they took the air together, walking at a gentle pace. "When will we send for Charlotte?" she asked, talking about the French Princess – Prince Harry's bride. "I suspect it won't be for some time yet."

"When she reaches sixteen," he replied. "I know Harry will still be very young; but I am sure she can wait for him to mature."

Satisfied with the response, Anne paused for a moment. "What about Princess Mary?" she asked.

"Who is not a Princess," Henry corrected her.

Anne frowned. "I thought you assured her she was conceived in good faith?"

Henry sighed and swept the cap from his head. Running a hand through his hair, he continued: "I said she is legitimate – not that she is a Princess. You have changed your mind about her, yourself? You wanted her stripped of everything but the shift on her back at one point."

Anne laughed mirthlessly. "What? And have every misguided fool feel sorry for her and running around after her? No, we must try kindness, Henry. She still believes I poisoned her mother."

Henry's body stiffened, she could feel it through his doublet. "I don't know why you tolerate such insolence!"

"Because I must!" Anne retorted. "To take action against these people would only play into their hands. Let me retire with our boys for a while; invite Mary to Court when Charlotte arrives - it will be company for her – and see what happens. Kindliness after years in the wilderness will work wonders."

Henry grunted. "If you say so."

Anne nodded emphatically, and stretched up on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek. "I do say so," she laughed, and trotted back to the bench with the roses strewn across them and swept them up in her arms, inhaling their scent deep in her lungs. Everything was finally falling into place, now.


	2. Dear Mary

**Author's Note:** Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, it's much appreciated. The usual disclaimers apply, and I own none of this and I make no profit from it.

Please read and review, thank you.

* * *

**Chapter Two: ****Dear Mary.**

Somewhere, deep in the bowels of the nursery, a tantrum is happening. Anne lifts her eyes from the letter she is in the middle of writing, and listens to the fluctuating pitch of the howls. Too mature for little Edward. Harry had outgrown such behaviour. She let out a deep breath. Arthur. Her attendants were polite enough to pretend they could not hear it, and Anne accordingly refocused on the letter and read silently over what she had written thus far.

"Dear Lady Mary," she had begun in earnest. "I heartily commend me unto you, and pray that this letter finds you in good health and high spirits. I think it far too long since I last spoke to you, and it is my most ardent regret that we parted on bad terms, and that there exists between us this bitter enmity."

Anne paused as another piercing shriek of infant rage rent the air. Soon, the boy would tire himself, be sick and then fall asleep. If she rushed to him, as she was wont to do, it would only endorse his foul behaviour and he would do it again. So, she swallowed her natural maternal care, and refocused her gaze on the letter to Lady Mary. So far, it was too perfunctory; too formal. This could have been a letter to a councillor or a friend with whom she had fallen out – yet Mary was the step-daughter she did not know. It had to be more direct, more open.

The nib of the pen dipped into the ink, and Anne resumed writing:

"As I am sure you have been informed, you have three brothers: Harry, aged five; Arthur, who is not yet four, and Edward who has this day turned one. Harry, in particular is of an age where he asks for you, he is curious to meet you. Over time, Arthur and Edward will follow – and I think it a sad lot that you have at this present time. You should not be alone in the bloom of your youth; you should be among us, your entirely beloved family. Which leads me to your father. The King desires-"

Anne paused as Henry's voice bellowed out from the doorway his own office which was opposite hers: "God's death; what manner of Devil has got into that child? Someone attend him, now!"

She could picture him leaning out of the door, glaring daggers down the empty corridor in the direction of the nursery, bellowing at no one in particular. Again, she sighed and turned back to the letter as Henry slammed his door shut – a gesture oddly reminiscent of Arthur's ongoing fury. She suddenly knew what Henry desired:

"The King desires, I think, the company of his grown up child. As proud as we all our of our brood of sons, there is nothing like adult conversation from a person equal to us in wit and station."

There, that was it. It was a letter for Mary; that spoke and appealed to her as a daughter, sister and friend. If this olive branch was rejected, Anne did not know what more she could do. For a brief moment, she wondered if she could go to Hunsden and lie on Mary's parlour floor and scream until she was sick. No, she reasoned, that would be nothing short of unseemly. Instead, she signed her name on the letter, affixed her seal and handed the letter over to one of her Ladies. "Urgent," she informed the woman. Then, she turned to the woman she suspected of sleeping with the King. It was only a suspicion, nothing definite, but Anne's spies had been whispering in her ear about this Jane Seymour. "You," said Anne, "will go to the nursery and see if Lady Bryan needs help with Prince Arthur."

Jane looked as if she were about to protest. Her pale face became tinted with a rose blush; nursery duties were not what was normally expected of the Queen's attendants. But Anne's placid gaze turned glacial and Jane thought better of questioning her. She hunched her shoulders and scurried off out of the room hot on the heels of the messenger. The door closed behind them, and Anne asked for wine to be poured from her sister-in-law, Lady Rochford.

"Do you know, Lady Rochford," she said, as Jane handed her her wine. "When George was a boy, and he misbehaved -in fact, if any of us misbehaved- father didn't need to raise his whip or his voice to us. He could do this thing with his eyes; his whole face but it's hard to explain. This look he would give us, and it alone would root us to the spot with fear. He looked as he always looked, but with pure, dangerous, malice in his eyes."

Jane smiled – a rare sight – and stifled a laugh. "All father's have that look, I think. Or their own variations of it that silence their own children."

"But Henry does not," Anne pointed out, and bid Jane pour herself some wine, too. "You heard him; he shouts and he's even spanked Arthur when he's been especially awful. It doesn't work – he needs 'that look' and I think I should ask father for instructions."

Jane ran her hand across her brow, trying to think of some sage advice. A difficult thing for a childless woman. But she was spared any further effort by the door opening and closing again. Expecting the messenger to have arrived, Anne turned in her seat to find her sister, Mary, slumped against the door she had just shut. Down the left hand side of her face, there were livid purple scratch marks with droplets of blood leaking down her delicate cheekbone. Her left sleeve had become detached from the rest of her gown, and her lace chemise was torn. A vicious red bite mark was livid against her pale left hand. Anne let her catch her breath, shocked into speechlessness anyway.

"Arthur did all that?" she asked, as Jane fetched another seat and guided poor Mary into it.

Mary turned her large eyes onto Anne and nodded dolefully. "Do you remember, when we were children, that look our father-"

She was cut off as Anne and Jane dissolved into laughter. Although unaware of the conversation she had walked in on, Marry joined in the laughter – rightly guessing they had been discussing the very same subject. She only stopped to down two successive goblets of Anne's fine French wine.

* * *

That evening, the table was set for four in the Royal Apartments. Henry and Anne sat together at the head of their table. To Anne's right, Prince Harry took his place. To Henry's left, Prince Edward was meant to be sitting, but Henry pulled the toddler up onto his lap so he, personally, could help him with his soft fruits. Anne couldn't fault Henry's adoration of the boy, it made her heart melt to see them both as Henry tenderly picked out the softest, easiest, pieces of fruit for the child, and then dab at the messy chin with his own sleeves. While this went on, Henry's own meal went ignored. Edward had brought out an all new tenderness in Henry, one that Anne herself did not know existed – although, that was possibly because she was perfectly capable of cutting her own food and feeding herself. There was no place set for Prince Arthur: he sat, sullen and banished, tucked away in a corner on the floor where he would be in no one's sight and no one's way as the servants and attendants clattered about with platters of food. His meal was basic bread and cheese served with a small ale – having been told in no uncertain terms he was lucky to be getting that.

Despite his disgrace, Anne couldn't help trying to steal glances at her middle son. This exclusion from family life, where he could see them but they couldn't see him, hurt her more than she believed it hurt him. But one of the women she spoke to, a mother of six, assured her it worked. It neither condoned his behaviour; nor ignored it.

Henry saw her looking. "Leave him to stew," he advised her gently, covering her hand with his own. "We must give this method a try."

His determination pulled at her heart strings. "But he's been so quiet," she murmured softly, not wanting the child to know he was being talked about – something the Lady had warned her against as it still played into his neediness. But Harry somewhat ruined it for them.

"Arthur bit me," he declared loudly, having been close enough to over-hear the conversation, "so I bit him back even harder."

Anne's spirits sank, and Henry sighed impatiently.

"Harry, what have you been told about this?" Henry scolded. "When Arthur has his fits you must leave the room with Lady Salisbury immediately. You do not interfere and you certainly do not provoke. Your poor aunt Mary was in tatters after she finally restored calm."

Harry muttered hasty apologies, flushing red as he turned back to his meal. Anne, however, leaned over and kissed his cheek.

Turning back to Henry, she said: "My Lord, I don't think it altogether fair that Harry should be the one to spoil his play time just because Arthur is having a turn. Should Arthur not be the one taken out of the nursery?"

The King let his knife fall to his plate with a shrill clatter, and dropped his face into his free hand. "And I don't think it fair that all my scant leisure time is spent arguing about a naughty, jealous child and his inconsiderate brother. But I do, anyway."

Stung by the suddenly angry tone in his voice, Anne let the matter drop. Sensing this sudden change, however, Henry hastily apologised.

"You have written to Lady Mary?" he asked, over-brightly to compensate for the previous sour notes.

Relieved at the change of subject, Anne nodded enthusiastically as she reached for the wine. "I have, and I made her an excellent offer," she explained. "She is to come as an independent Lady, not as my servant or Lady in Waiting, but as a member of our family. Also, I was thinking, you know how you made me Marchioness of Pembroke?"

She paused, studying Henry's reaction from over the rim of her wine glass. He renewed his interest in his food, his expression darkening as he second guessed where she was going. With no answer forthcoming, Anne pressed on before the silence could become tense. "I was a nobody before you ennobled me-"

"You were my future wife, Anne!" he guffawed in response.

"And she is your daughter," she retorted. "Please consider it: it would be a gesture of kindness to your daughter; who was once your heir, and the center of your world. Just somewhere small, nothing strategic or necessary for the Crown. Just something that could keep her occupied and maintain an independent lifestyle."

He was thinking about it, now. She could tell, even though his full attention was on Edward, spooning the pulped fruit into his mouth. Eventually, he asked: "Why are you so concerned with her all of a sudden?"

Anne swallowed at the bite that had suddenly lodged in her throat. "Because I fear her, Henry," she replied. "She's out there on her own, up to God knows what and still believing I poisoned her mother. She still has powerful relatives who will one day be sitting round the table with our son, so I fear for him, too."

Henry set Edward down in his own seat, and turned to Anne, putting his arms around her shoulders. Leaning in close, he let his head come to rest on hers. "Do not fear," he tried to assure her. "France is with us; they are sending Charlotte soon and Harry will be married. The Pope has no choice but to support Harry over Mary; boys come first. You know that. But, if it would bring you comfort, I will give it some thought."

Anne smiled. "That is all that I ask of you, my lord."

* * *

Lady Mary looked at the Spanish Ambassador with tears in her eyes and the Queen's letter spread out before her on the solar table. "This is a trap," she said, tremulously and jerked her head down at the letter, as though it had literally sprouted iron claws to ensnare her hand the next time she went to pick it up. "She means to poison me like she poisoned my mother."

She expected this new man, Eustace Chapuys, to laugh or chide her for being childish. But his countenance was completely bland; altogether lacking in any form of judgement against her. So much so that she began to wonder if the Boleyn's chose him – but no, he was Charles's choice and the influence of the Boleyn's hadn't quite reached the Empire, just yet.

"Princess, make no hasty decision," he advised her, still leaning casually against the door frame. "Think what you are missing, should this offer be genuine."

The children sprang straight to mind. Her brothers, barely babies. She could not deny the longing that filled her. Longing for a child of her own; but her father had forsaken her marriage. Brothers were as close as she would get to babies of her own. Who knows, the Queen may even have more children that she could help look after?

Eustace finally pushed himself off the door frame and seated himself opposite Mary. "What is the evidence that the Queen had your Gracious Mother poisoned? Answer me bluntly."

"Circumstances," she replied. That was it. "And other people have told me as much – but do not ask me to name them!"

She was becoming panicked, and Eustace was quick to calm her. "I would not," he soothed, deigning to rest a hand on her painfully slender arm. "But your evidence boils down to rumour. That whole Court is a cesspit of rumour and none of it is to be believed."

"I trust these people!" Mary insisted, "they would not lie to me."

Eustace paused, drawing in a deep breath. "Not deliberately, no-"

"What is your meaning?"

"I mean, they probably believe their own -" he paused to think of a delicate phrasing, "-misinformation."

Mary said nothing, but dropped her tearful gaze to the letter. She could lead a life of loneliness, or she could make amends with her father. She could wither on the vine, or she could make a new life. But at the expense to her loyalty to her mother? She was poisoned, Mary knew it.

"Mary, the sainted Queen Catherine died of Sweating Sickness during one of the worst epidemics of that illness this country has yet seen. Many notable people died, many thousands of unnotables. Even Queen Anne got it, and retired to Hever-"

"It was the perfect cover, then!" Mary flashed angrily back at him. "For who would notice a poisoned Queen amidst an epidemic? The Queen had the sweat, yet she was still able to travel to Hever with it?"

Eustace leaned back in his chair and looked up at the ceiling in exasperation. "What I meant was, Henry sent her from Court to escape the contagion but it was too late. She developed the symptoms after her arrival. If I can get Anne's medical bills from Linacre and Butts, will you come back to Court? That will be the evidence you need to know that she was too ill herself to go about poisoning other people."

"Someone did it for her, obviously!"

Even she didn't seem so convinced, any more. It was as if she only said these things out of habit of hating Anne Boleyn. However, through a steady stream of tears that now trickled down her face, she promised to give it some thought. With that, she snatched up the letter, and dismissed him from her home.


End file.
